


Star-Crossed

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [20]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 02:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: Roman doesn’t think he’s been this nervous about a date since high school.





	Star-Crossed

Roman doesn’t think he’s been this nervous about a date since high school. Hell, Roman doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous about a date _ever_ , because even his first date was _she likes me, I like her_ , and while with Connie it’s pretty much the same — if not gender-wise, obviously — he can’t ignore the tangled threads of their professional relationship and the fact that it isn’t that simple. _He likes me and also that other guy_ , is a whole other thing to swallow, never mind that ‘that other guy’ also happens to be a teammate. It’s impossible for Roman not to worry about comparison, to the idea of someone else in the abstract and to Harry in practice, and while Spoilsport doesn’t exactly seem like some super romantic dude, it makes Roman want to step up his game, show Connie how seriously he’s taking this. 

Taking it seriously starts with reservations for a restaurant that is so good it makes him want to cry when he eats their food, jumping their wait with a name — or team, since ‘North Stars’ got recognition that ‘Roman Novák’ didn’t — and feeling pretty bad about it, but not bad enough to go somewhere less booked solid and less delicious. Considers a movie, but most of the ones in theaters right now suck, and even if it’s traditional, the sitting in darkness not talking doesn’t seem like a good first date plan, especially because he couldn’t even take Connie’s hand without worrying someone would see. It wouldn’t be the end of the world for him if someone did, but he knows it would be for Connie, so that’s out.

Roman offered to pick Connie up rather than meet him at the restaurant, and Connie’s already waiting outside at six-thirty on the nose. He looks great, flakes of snow drifting into his hair, wavy enough that Roman thinks he went without gel again, and Roman always thought the heart skipping a beat thing was ridiculous, but he’s buying it right now. He sees Connie in every form, from dressed up to geared up to sweats and a t-shirt, and he looks good no matter what, but tonight he looks like he _tried_ , and that’s a lot.

Roman isn’t the only one who’s nervous, which becomes very evident on the drive to the restaurant. Connie alternates between dead quiet and chatter about the team, too fast to be comfortable, and Roman wants to reach out, grab his hand or something, but he’s pretty sure Connie would get even more nervous if he did, especially since it’s snowing, so he keeps his hands to himself and his eyes on the road, mostly, only glancing over when he can’t help himself.

“I don’t think I’m dressed well enough,” Connie says just before they walk into the restaurant. He isn’t at the level of the game day suit, but he’s wearing dress pants and a button down that Roman hasn’t seen on him before, a pale blue that brings out his eyes, hardly what anyone could call under-dressed.

“You are,” Roman says, then, “You look good, Con.”

“I should have worn a tie,” Connie says, eyes darting over to Roman’s. It’s his lucky tie, the one his babička picked out for him before his draft. Usually it only comes out during playoff elimination games, but he’d felt itchy with another tie on, unsettled, like he was missing something, and the feeling only settled when he swapped the tie out for this one.

“It’s my lucky tie,” Roman tells him, and Connie’s mouth quirks a little. “You look good, okay?”

“You too,” Connie says. “It’s a nice tie.”

“My grandma bought it for my draft,” Roman says. “Draft worked out pretty well for me.” Landed him on a team that meant home before he even put the jersey on. Wasn’t even the first time he’d worn a North Stars jersey with Novák on the back, though his father’s number was taken, as was the one he used in college. He went with his brother’s old number in the end, wears it to this day.

“Me too,” Connie says, with this soft, sweet smile that completely destabilizes him, and fuck, Roman is so over his head here.

“Hungry?” Roman asks.

“Always,” Connie says, and Roman shelves the growth spurt chirp that comes to his tongue, because it makes him sound like a skeeve. Connie’s the most grown-up twenty-year-old Roman’s ever met, most of the time, but Roman still ends up wincing internally if he thinks about it too long.

The place Roman chose is basically perfect for a first date — the food’s amazing, and the atmosphere is great; dimly lit enough to make everyone look good but not too dim to be annoying, quiet, enough space between the tables for a sense of privacy. He’s never actually been here on a date, just with his family, but he’s patting himself on the back the second they sit down.

“Aren’t people going to think—” Connie starts.

“Think what?” Roman asks.

“This place is really nice,” Connie says, then, a little hesitantly. “Like…you know.”

Roman’s gotten a lot of practice reading between the Connie lines, enough that between his comments and the ambiance, Roman can figure out what he’s not comfortable expressing. He’d tell Connie not to worry about it, that it’d be a hell of a stretch to assume a nice place automatically means a date, especially because people tend to assume you’re straight unless told directly otherwise, but he knows telling Connie not to worry is practically inviting him to worry more.

“I took my mom here for Mother’s Day a couple years back,” Roman says instead.

“Yeah?” Connie asks, posture loosening a bit. “She liked it?”

“Couldn’t stop raving about the scallops,” Roman says. “I think my dad was jealous, they took me for my birthday a month later, I think just so he could try it.”

“Did he get the scallops?” Connie asks.

“He did,” Roman says. “Forgetting that he hates scallops. My mom and I ate a lot of scallops that night.”

Connie smiles, and Roman nudges his foot under the table. “The scallops are good,” he says. “Is my point.”

Their waitress comes by to take their drink orders, and Connie looks over at Roman then hesitantly asks for water, even though there’s no way they’d card him. “Mineral or sparkling?” she asks.

“Um,” Evan says. “Just…water? Please?”

“And you?” she asks Roman, straight faced. 

They have a nice local IPA on the menu, but Roman’s not drinking if Connie isn’t. “Tap water works for me too,” Roman says.

“Sorry,” Connie says when she disappears.

“For what?” Roman asks.

Connie shrugs miserably. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Roman says. “Okay?” 

Connie nods, chewing his lip, then looks intently at the menu. “Do you think they take substitutions?” Connie asks after a minute. His shoulders have started climbing up to his ears. “I know some fancy restaurants take it really personally, I don’t want to—”

“You want to go get a burger, Sweetheart?” Roman asks.

“This is a really nice place,” Connie says anxiously. “And you like it, and I’m sure it’s delicious and—”

“Connie,” Roman interrupts, before he gets to proper panic. “I’m not going to take it personally if you do, okay?”

“Okay,” Connie says quietly.

“You want to go get a burger?” Roman asks again. “There’s a good place about a block from here. All local stuff, and it’s pretty casual.”

“I—” Connie says, then, after looking around the restaurant one last time, “I’d like that.”

*

Connie relaxes considerably once they’re sitting down at the pub ten minutes later, scanning the chalkboard bar list and ordering a beer when the waiter comes, Roman following suit. They end up splitting a whole bunch of apps, Connie with hesitance on some of them that has Roman thinking he’ll be eating the majority of it and Connie will be taking the entire order of edamame. He doesn’t mind. He could eat chicken fingers all day.

Connie may be relaxed in comparison to before, but he’s still nervous, not the kid shooting the shit with teammates after a win, reserved but smiling, not Roman’s lieutenant in Rookie Detective matters. He’s talking, but it’s nervous, smiling, but it’s strained. He’s not alone with the nerves, and Roman’s heart gets kicking in his chest every time Connie looks less than happy, an echo that means by the time they’re polishing off the food Roman’s feeling vaguely nauseated. 

“Why are you nervous, Sweetheart?” Roman asks, while they pick at the remains of the apps. Connie asked twice if it was okay if he killed the edamame, apparently not taking Roman’s first answer (laughing and saying he’d prefer the fried shit anyway) as gospel.

“I’m—”, Connie starts. “I don’t think I’ve ever, like, eaten with you before,” he says finally.

“We’ve eaten together plenty of times,” Roman says.

“Not alone,” Connie says, which is true. As soon as Roman caught onto that crush Connie was harboring, he made sure not to do anything that might give him the wrong impression, set him up for disappointment. Kind of ironic now. “It’s kind of — I don’t know.”

“Am I really that intimidating?” Roman asks. He gets that sometimes, from a physical standpoint, but Connie has seen exactly how ridiculous he is. Roman has made him not one but two badges, each badge testifying to the fact that Roman not only owns a badge making machine — it’s awesome — but also has spent nights off _making badges_. Look, living alone can get boring. Sometimes you have to get some outside hobbies and start a rookie detective agency.

Roman goes ahead and says all that out loud, because no shame. He’s proud of those badges. They came out well, the second try.

“I thought you ordered them,” Connie says, looking like he’s trying not to laugh.

“You can’t be secret detectives if you go around outsourcing labor and,” Roman says. “Made them for you guys with my own two hands.”

“I like you so much,” Connie says, and then literally claps a hand over his mouth, going beet red.

“Ditto, okay?” Roman says, nudging his foot against Connie’s under the table. “Quit being nervous of me and I’ll make you another badge.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” Connie asks, then looks very proud of himself for his chirp. Roman kicks him gently on the ankle.

“Want to come meet my puppy?” Roman asks, gratified by the answer in the form of the smile that immediately overtakes Connie’s face. The drive back to his place is infinitely more relaxed than the one before dinner, Connie asking if he has any other crafting hobbies, then shyly admitting he used to knit with his grandma, while Roman simultaneously dies over the cuteness of that mental image and warns him not to tell a living soul on the North Stars about, because they would never let it go.

“I know that,” Connie says, offended sounding. 

“I’m a North Star,” Roman points out.

“But I knew you wouldn’t make fun of me about it,” Connie says as confidently as Roman’s ever heard him say anything, and that’s—

“Yeah,” Roman says after a moment. “I wouldn’t.” 

*

“Zuza’s a little hyper with new people,” Roman warns Connie before he opens his front door. Also old people. Also Roman every time he comes in the door and sometimes when he comes into the room she’s been napping in. Also every single dog she ever sees.

“I can handle it,” Connie promises solemnly.

“This is—” Roman starts, the moment they step inside, then, “Zuza!”, sharp, when she skitters through the hall and starts desperately pawing at Connie’s shin.

Connie literally gets down on his knees to greet her, and it’s more than Roman can take. “Hi Zuza,” Connie says, in a baby voice that sounds a lot like Roman’s when he talks to her. “Does her name mean something in Czech?”

Roman clears his throat. “Lily,” he says, when Connie looks up at him expectantly. “Graceful lily. My grandma picked it.”

“You are,” Connie says to her, and she preens exactly as much as she should.

“She’s so small,” Connie says. “How old is she?”

“Seven months,” Roman says. “But she’s part Corgi, so she’s got those stubby little legs for life. You okay with us taking her for a W-A-L-K? I can’t promise it’ll make her less hyper, but.”

“Want to go for a walk, Zuza?” Connie asks, like it’s even a question, and she’s wagging her tail hopefully beside her leash across hall before Connie can even stand.

The park by Roman’s house is deserted, what with the temperature dipping fast, snow starting to come down a little harder. Zuza loves it, the arctic warrior she is, enthusiastically exploring her surroundings like she’s never seen them before in her life, let alone every day. Snow makes it different, Roman guesses. Quieter, like there’s a hush over everything, gentling the landscape and everything around it, including Connie, snow speckling his hair, cheeks flushed with the cold, the familiar made novel.

Roman looks around the park, double-checking it’s still just them and Zuza, who’s industriously digging for something, then leans up to brush his mouth against Connie’s, a quick, cold kiss that nevertheless warms him through all the way until Zuza tires her little self out, and they head back to his apartment. “I’ll drive you home?” Roman asks after he’s toweled Zuza dry.

“I—” Connie says, then, frowning, “I can call—”

“I’m driving you home,” Roman unilaterally decides.

Connie’s quiet on the drive back, but not in an awkward way, Roman doesn’t think, more thoughtful. He unbuckles his seat belt when Roman pulls up in front of his apartment, but doesn’t get out of the car, looking over at Roman, before asking, all in a rush, “Would you like to come in for a beer?”

“Where you getting beer, Evan Connelly?” Roman asks, mock disapproving.

“Vic got me—” Connie says, then stops, all wide-eyed when he catches himself snitching.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell management,” Roman tells him. Not that management would give a shit. Partying and fucking up? They give a shit. Having a beer underaged once in awhile and lighting it the fuck up on the ice? Yeah, they do not care.

“Beer?” Connie asks, and Roman could have another one and still be more than good to drive, but he has a feeling that it’s not going to be one, or that it will be, but he won’t be leaving any time soon after that. 

“Next time,” Roman says.

“You don’t want one?” Connie asks, sounding kind of hurt, and yeah, this is not about beer at all. His hands are curled in his lap, and Roman reaches out, puts a hand on his, thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

“I really want one,” Roman says. “But maybe not on the first date.”

“I’m not a virgin or anything,” Connie mumbles.

“I know,” Roman says, though he didn’t, and tried not to think about it one way or another, though that was hard. Hard not to think about it even now, and whether that’s been true for awhile or only recently. He tries to shut that thinking down, because the last thing he wants is some dumb, possessive part of his brain following Connie inside because what, he’s _jealous_? “I want to take this slow, okay? You’re important to me.”

“That doesn’t mean--” Connie starts, then goes mute.

“Doesn’t mean what?” Roman asks.

“You don’t have to go slow,” Connie says, then all in a rush, “But if you want to that’s fine I don’t mean to keep pressuring you if you don’t want to I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart,” Roman says helplessly, then leans over to press a kiss to Connie’s warm, flushed cheek. 

“I’ll go,” Connie says, opening the car door, and Roman wants to follow him so badly, especially when he gets out, leaning over to say, “Thank you for a lovely evening,” like something out of Miss Manners, before he shuts the door.

He fights with himself about it the whole drive home, the impulse to just turn around, tell Connie not to listen to him about shit, he doesn’t know what he’s doing any more than Connie does, maybe less. Instead he trudges into his quiet apartment — as quiet as it can get when Zuza’s running to greet him, grabbing a beer from the fridge and turning on the TV, feeling disquieted but not really sure why.

It isn’t until he’s drowsing in front of Colbert, beer drained and Zuza contentedly asleep on his lap, that he finally puts it together. 

Roman had spent the whole time cataloging Connie’s expressions, his body language, trying to gauge how he was feeling. Connie ranged everywhere from tense and miserable to smiling, light without the tension running through him, but even his sunniest smile had weight behind it that’s nowhere to be found when he’s teasing Victor, or talking to Dev about nutrition, or, lately, when he’s talking to Harry. That a line of tension was running through him even when he was inviting Roman in, and Roman is more thankful than ever that he followed his gut, didn’t follow him inside. That Roman doesn’t know if he’s ever seen him without it, not first hand, and what that might mean.

Fuck, Roman thinks, then even more emphatic, _Fuck_ , because he thinks he’s lost him before he started.


End file.
